


I'd hate to see out of control

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-30
Updated: 2010-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A job goes catastrophically wrong. It's not their fault. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd hate to see out of control

The first sign that there was something odd about this job was their client. He was a sandy-haired businessman of uncertain provenance and vocation, perfectly charming but just a little bit _odd_. Nothing anyone could point to, no obvious evil proclivities, just... something that was strange. A little off.

But he paid them a truly staggering fee, in advance, and his request was very simple indeed.

"Just one little thing," he'd said. "He won't even notice it's missing."

The second sign, in retrospect, was how little information they had on the mark. It was as if he didn't exist. His name was clearly false, but they had almost nothing else to go on. No police records, no social security or national insurance numbers, no government records whatsoever. The man had, apparently, never existed. He was possibly British. There were a few footnotes in police blotters, a newspaper article here or there, but nothing concrete to go on.

"What the hell is he?" Ariadne said. "Some sort of spy?"

Arthur shrugged, absorbed in the few paltry bits of information they _had_ managed to unearth.

"Probably," he said. "You'll just have to make it really generic. A bank, or a mall or something. Something he won't notice."

"Two layers?"

"Two layers," Arthur said. "A hotel and a bank."

" _He'll be outside the Sheraton Grand at four o'clock on October 16th. There'll be a girl with him; she'll come looking for him, eventually._ "

They'd rented a room in the hotel, on the first floor near the doors.

" _Tell him you need his help. It'll be the easiest way to get him to trust you._ "

And so, at ten in the morning on October 16th, Arthur ensconced himself in an armchair in the hotel's foyer, and watched the guests drifting in and out of the building. The mark didn't arrive until two thirty-five, by which point Arthur had read every newspaper the hotel stocked and was working his way through back-issues of the _New Yorker_. The mark was taller than he'd expected, a reedy young man in a bowtie and a tweed jacket. He walked right by Arthur, all of his attention focused on the leggy redhead who was, by all appearances, furious with him.

She was very pretty. Rage suited her. Arthur smirked, and allowed himself to feel a little pity for the poor man.

John Smith was in over his head, that much was clear. That could be useful.

They disappeared into an elevator, gesticulating wildly at each other ("I'll get him back, Amy, I promise!" Smith was saying), and Arthur put aside his paper and checked his watch.

At four o'clock precisely, the elevator opened again and John Smith fairly shot out of it. In his haste to leave the hotel, he crashed headlong into a flustered young man who was running up the steps.

"Oh, _shit_ ," the man said, grasping at his sleeves. "I'm sorry, I'm just- it's my wife. There's something wrong with her and I-"

"Wrong?" Smith said.

"I need a doctor or something," Arthur went on, apparently oblivious to his death-grip on Smith's coat sleeve. Smith grimaced and checked his watch.

"As it happens," he said, "I _am_ a doctor. I'm _the_ Doctor, and I have-" he looked at his watch again, and glanced guiltily up at the hotel. "I have a little time to help. Now," he said, prying Arthur's fingers off of his coat. "Where's your wife?"

"She's in-" Arthur pointed at the hotel, stumbling over his words "-and the baby- sir, please-"

"All right! Come on, everything will be just fine!" Smith was fairly skipping along after Arthur. Everything was going according to plan.

Everything went perfectly. Eames was waiting in the hotel room with the sedative and a hypodermic needle, and, after a very brief struggle, Smith went under. ("Sorry," Eames said, when Smith finally slumped onto the bed. He actually seemed to mean it.)

"Okay," Arthur said, before they hooked in. "Remember the game plan. Eames distracts him, I take on the projections. We're looking for something small, possibly a stopwatch. Everyone know the layout?"

"I've always wanted to wear a miniskirt," Eames said. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"See you on the other side," Ariadne said.

And then they were under.

And everything started to go wrong.

  
Birds were singing. It was freezing cold, and they were in a park. The mark was sitting on a bench, waiting for them. He looked _bored_.

"This isn't what Ariadne designed," Eames said.

"No," the mark said. His forehead wrinkled and he gave Eames a look of consternation. "Do you _really_ have to do that? You're not fooling anyone, and it's giving me a headache. It's like looking at a magic-eye picture for too long. Everything's all-" he wrinkled his nose. "Please. Just _don't_."

Arthur pulled his coat a little closer against the chill and considered their options, idly wondering why this guy didn't have any projections.

"Where are the projections?" Eames muttered, clearly thinking along the same lines.

John Smith grimaced. "You really wouldn't want to meet my projection," he said. He glanced almost nervously over his shoulder.

"Now," he continued, turning back to Eames and Arthur. "we've got, oh-" he glanced at his watch. "ten minutes until we wake up. Well, I've got about five until the sedative wears off since my system runs twice as fast. Unfortunately for you, my psychic field is much, much stronger than yours, which means _I'm_ in control of this dream. Which means," he said pleasantly, settling back into the bench, "you have two hours to tell me why you've tried to break into my head."

Eames and Arthur glanced at each other uncertainly.

John Smith raised his eyebrows. "I can wait here until your little human brains turn to mush. I have places to be and people to save, and I want to know who put you up to this. Now, really," he said, " _tell me what's going on_."

Arthur shrugged. What else could they do?

"Have you ever heard of a man named Harold Saxon?" he asked.

 

 **_  
_ **

 


End file.
